


A Little Help From My Friends

by Kalimyre



Series: Little Help [1]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Never make a bet with Douglas Richardson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:51:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalimyre/pseuds/Kalimyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas cleverly discovers that Martin is a virgin.  He makes a bet that gives Martin a deadline to de-virginise.  Running out of time, Martin turns to Arthur for help.  Fortunately Arthur loves helping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bet

“Luxembourg.”

“Anna.”

Martin sighed.  “San Francisco.”

“Melanie.”  A fond smile spread over Douglas’ face.  “That was in the eighties: big hair, tiny bikini.”

“Rio.”

Douglas chuckled.  “You want the whole list?  Carmela, Maria, Rita… and that’s only the first visit.”

“Oh, enough,” Martin muttered.  “You’re just making them up now.”

“I’m doing no such thing,” Douglas said.  “I told you I’ve got someone in any major city you can think of, and I do.  You just don’t want to admit you’ve lost the bet.”

“You could be lying about all of them.”

“Yes, I could,” Douglas agreed.  “But I’m not. I don’t have to.”

Martin rolled his eyes.  “And how many of them would have you now?  Douglas the young, dashing Air England captain is not quite the same as Douglas the middle aged first officer of MJN.”

There was a pause.  Martin hunched his shoulders, sensing the change in the air.  “Douglas, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Let’s hear yours, then,” Douglas said, cutting him off.  “How about it, _Captain?_ Boy in every port?”

“That’s not… I never said…”

“I mean, surely in San Francisco, at least.”

“I’ve never been, actually.”

“Then name me a city where you’ve had someone,” Douglas replied.  “And we’ll see if you can name one that I don’t have.”

Martin shook his head.  “Look, I’m sorry, this was a stupid bet.  Let’s just forget it.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Douglas said.  “I think this old dog still knows more tricks than you do.  And really, you ought to have the advantage.”

“Because I’m the captain?”

“Because you’re gay,” Douglas replied.  “Haven’t you ever heard the saying?  ‘A woman needs a reason to have sex.  A man just needs a place.’”

“ _Douglas!”_ Martin scowled.  “Don’t stereotype.  That’s not true at all.”

“Come on.  I’ll give you an easy one—Amsterdam.”

Martin directed a fixed stare through the windscreen and said nothing.

“No?  How about Paris?  New York?  Tokyo?”

A flush crept up Martin’s face.  He bit his lip.

“Really?”  Douglas paused and cocked his head to one side.  “Fitton?”

“Stop it.”

_“Wokingham?”_

“That’s enough, Douglas.  You’ve made your point.”

“Martin.”

“Yes, you win again, I get it.”  Martin scrubbed a hand through his hair.  “You take the next three landings of your choice.  Congratulations.”

Douglas gave him a long, considering stare.  “Did you just admit to being a virgin?”

“No.”

“No, you’re not?”

“No, I… didn’t admit to it.” 

There was another charged pause.  Martin could feel his face heat all the way up until his ears burned, but his gaze remained stubbornly straight ahead. 

“I apologize,” Douglas said.  “It appears I misjudged the social life of gay men.”

“Told you not to stereotype.”

“To be fair, I hardly think your… situation… is common.”

“Yes, I know that, thank you,” Martin snapped.  “Just… please don’t tell anyone.”

“Not sure I can help you there,” Douglas replied.  “Such a fascinating little tidbit may escape me.  Terrible memory for secrets, you know.  Must be my age.”

“I said I was sorry!  You’re not middle-aged, all right?”

“I could, perhaps, offer you a deal.”

Martin regarded him with deep suspicion.  “What kind of deal?”

“You agree to give up all rights to ever mention, discuss, or allude to Helena thinking I’m a captain, and I agree to keep your secret.”

“And you also won’t bring it up?”

Douglas gave an amused huff.  “You mean, I won’t use it just between us to tease, vex, badger, or otherwise take you down a peg whenever I so desire?”

“Right.”

“No.”

Martin frowned.  “That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair,” Douglas replied.  “Fortunately, it is frequently unfair in my favour.”

Martin chewed on his bottom lip.  “I won’t bring up Helena, and… five landings?  If you agree to not talk about… that.”

“Are you negotiating with me?”

“Yes.”

“Martin, I want you to think about your history with negotiation.  Are you certain this is a road you want to go down?”

“I shouldn’t have to negotiate anything!” Martin protested.  “You should just agree, as a friend, not to bring it up because I’ve asked you not to.”

“And you should likewise agree to not bring up Helena, for the same reason.”

“Fine!  I agree.  I’ll never bring it up again.  Just because you asked.  Okay?”

Douglas’ expression softened.  “If it truly bothers you, I’ll leave it alone.”

_“Thank you.”_

“As soon as I’ve asked you a question.”

Martin thumped his head back against the chair.  He sighed and gestured for Douglas to go on.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?” Martin asked.

“Exactly that.  Why, at thirty-two, are you still…”

Martin shrugged wearily.  “I don’t know.  I mean, at first, I was so busy studying for the CPL and taking lessons to build up the flight hours.  I was working two, sometimes three jobs to pay for it, and then working and saving and paying for the re-takes; I just didn’t have time.  When I finally got the license and my first job as a pilot I did try, but my schedule was always a wreck and, well, you’ve seen my flat, I couldn’t bring anyone there and nothing seemed to work out.  And now I’m a man with a van who flies for a tiny airdot as an unpaid hobby.”  He spread his hands and let out a long breath.

“Hmm.  So you’ve given up?”

“No, I wouldn’t say… I mean, I do have other responsibilities, I can’t spend all my time... it’s not fair to say that I’ve just given up.  It sounds pathetic when you say it that way.”

“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”

Martin glared at him.  “You’re really not helping.”

“Oh, but I am,” Douglas countered.  “You’ve stopped trying.  You’ve got discouraged and convinced yourself it’s not worth the effort.  Think of my inevitable and creative mockery as a motivational seminar, courtesy of an expert in the field.”

“You said you’d leave it alone!”

“And so I shall.  For precisely six weeks, I will leave it alone.  You won’t hear a peep out of me.”

“What happens when the six weeks are up?”

“Well, that depends,” Douglas replied.  “If, at any point during the allotted time, you arrive at the airfield with the rosy glow of a job well done, I will offer you my heartfelt congratulations and we will never speak of it again.  However, if at the end of that time you are still, shall we say, _virgo intacta,_ then I will consider it fair play to say whatever I choose—just between us, of course.”

“What’s to stop me from just making someone up?”

“Two things,” Douglas said.  “One, when it comes to lying, you are nearly as bad as Arthur.  And two, you don’t actually _want_ to cheat.  You want to win.”

“So, you threatening to embarrass me about this is, what, doing me a favour?  Giving me a little nudge so I’ll try harder?”

“Precisely.”

Martin thought about his attic flat.  He thought about sitting on his thin futon and listening to the students below talk and laugh.  He thought about the flight they’d taken to Cancun the month before, with the honeymoon couple who were so obviously, thoroughly in love.  Every time he’d walked through the cabin they hadn’t even seen him, too wrapped up in each other to notice anyone else existed.  He thought about walking through a crowded airport bumping into people and realising it was the most human contact he’d had in weeks. 

“Okay,” he said.  “You’re on.”


	2. The Club

Martin didn’t dawdle.  Spurred partly by the deadline and partly by the grim realisation that if he didn’t take action, he’d probably die a virgin, he gritted his teeth, put on his least ragged shirt, and went to the one gay club he knew of in Fitton. 

He’d never claimed to be the fastest or the smartest (in his head, Douglas raised a sardonic eyebrow at him that spoke volumes) but when it came to dogged persistence, Martin knew he had it in spades.  When a rush of heat and noise rolled over him as he walked in the door, he pushed through it.  When he was jostled and had to shout for an overpriced drink, he clung to his space by the bar and waited for it.  And when he noticed that everyone else there seemed to be younger, fitter, and better dressed, he stayed anyway. 

Perched on the edge of a bar stool, he nursed his drink and eyed the crowd.  On the dance floor, two young men who looked barely old enough to be out of sixth form were doing something less like a dance and more like amateur porn.  The one with bleached blond hair had his hand down the other’s trousers to the wrist, and they were kissing like they’d decided breathing was optional.  As Martin watched, Blondie pulled back, flashed his friend a wicked grin, and pulled him toward the door by his belt loops.  The crowd surged closed in their wake.

Martin swallowed another tiny sip of his drink.  He could do that.  It didn’t look hard.  Go out there, dance, run into someone and then leave with them.  The music was too loud for conversation, so minimal chance of saying the wrong thing.  He bopped his head a little, trying to catch the beat.  He didn’t have to know how to dance, surely?  It didn’t seem like there were any rules to it.  He saw men twisting and flailing their arms and bobbing at the knees everywhere he looked.  He could do that. 

Maybe he’d have another drink first, though.  Loosen up a bit. 

He turned back toward the bar and tried to catch the bartender’s eye.  He raised one hand in a wave.  When that didn’t work, he lifted his empty glass and wiggled it meaningfully.  The bartender glanced at him.  He gave a hopeful raise of his eyebrows.  The bartender flapped a hand at him (what did that mean?  Just a minute?  Bugger off?) and turned away.

Martin sighed and propped his chin in one hand.  Probably for the best, anyway.  He’d already skipped lunch and dinner to save his usual food budget for a couple drinks.

“You won’t get anything that way,” said a loud voice at his left shoulder.

Martin spun, startled.  A man stood beside him, grinning.  He had spiky brown hair and eyes of some dark colour he couldn’t identify in the flickering club lights.  Jeans fit snug over his hips and a cotton tee clung to broad shoulders.  His chin was rough with stubble and his smile revealed a gap between his front teeth, comfortingly imperfect.

“Um,” Martin said.  “Um, what?”

“A drink,” the man replied.  “You won’t get a drink that way.  ‘Specially if you didn’t tip him big after the first round.”

“Oh.  I, ah…”

“Let me show you how it’s done.”  He leaned over the bar, his elbow resting against Martin’s side.  “Hey, Bobby!  Another round down here!”

The bartender smiled, and two fresh drinks appeared on the bar in front of them before Martin could say anything else.  He frowned down at his glass.  It contained something that looked pinkish in the neon, and smelled eye-wateringly strong when he took a whiff.

“There you go, mate,” the man said, lifting his own glass. 

“Thank you,” Martin said.  “Um, let me…”  He fumbled for his wallet.

“Nah, don’t worry about it.  I got a tab.”  The man leaned close and gave an encouraging nod.  “Go on, toss it back.  The trick is to swallow fast so you don’t taste it.”  His leer gave the words a double meaning and Martin bit back a nervous giggle.

He lifted the glass, held his breath, and following his new friend’s example, drank it in one long swallow.  He gasped and coughed when it was down, and the man laughed and clapped him on the back.  “Nice one!” he said.  “House special.  Bobby calls it the back alley blow job.  What do you think?”

Martin felt heat rush from his chest to the tips of his ears and wasn’t sure if it was the drink or the conversation.  “Smooth,” he sputtered, wheezing.

The man laughed again.  “I’m Sam, by the way.”

“Oh, hi,” Martin said, and then winced; the response sounded inane, especially when shouted over the music.  “I’m Martin.”

Sam shook his hand.  “Another round, Martin?”

He hesitated; Sam took this as a yes.  Two more of the pink house specials lined up in front of them.  Sam knocked his back and raised an expectant eyebrow.  Martin steeled himself.  He squeezed his free hand shut tight, fingernails digging into his palm, and let the sting distract him from the burn as he swallowed.  The drink hit his empty stomach hard. 

“So, um, what do you do?” he asked Sam.

“Plumbing,” Sam said. 

“Oh,” Martin replied.  “My dad was an electrician.”

Sam gave him a confused glance. 

“I just mean… plumber, electrician, it’s kind of… related,” he added.  His lips felt numb and he wondered if he was slurring his speech.

“Yeah,” Sam said, unconvinced.  “You in the family business then?”

Martin sat a little straighter.  “I’m a pilot.”

“Yeah?  Like for the army?”

“No, um… an airline pilot.  Commercial flights.  Actually, it’s a small charter company.  I’m the Captain.”  Martin bit his tongue to stop talking; Sam’s eyes had already developed a familiar look of flat disinterest.

“Sounds great,” Sam said. 

Martin nodded and lapsed into silence.  His stomach gave a slow, lurching barrel roll and he pressed his lips together.  He felt clammy and hot at the same time, sweat slick on his back and beaded on his upper lip. 

“Want to dance?” Sam asked.

“Um.”  Martin swallowed hard.  “Yeah, uh… just a minute.”  He offered Sam a wavering smile and bolted for the loo.

The air was cooler once the door swung shut behind him, and the music muted.  The cold fluorescent glare and relative quiet settled him.  He stood at the sink and splashed some water over his face.  His reflection was disheartening.  Eyes over-wide and dazed, a hectic patch of colour on pallid cheeks, his freckles standing out in sharp relief: out of his depth and looking for escape. 

“What am I _doing_ here?” he muttered to nobody in particular. 

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and turned toward the door.  He was going to dance with Sam, who seemed like a nice enough guy, and he was going to see this through.  Martin Crieff was not a quitter.

He half expected Sam to be gone when he walked back out, but he was still there at the bar.  He waved at Martin.  There were two fresh drinks in front of him.  “One more round,” Sam said.  “Then we dance.”

It would be rude to turn him down after he’d already bought the drink, wouldn’t it?  It would probably be rude.  He could handle one more. 

They knocked back the drinks (Martin found it easier this time, the burn dulled by repeated doses) and Sam tucked a hand around his arm and pulled him out on the floor.  They jostled for space.  Martin caught an elbow in the ribs and someone trod on his foot but those things were distant and unimportant.  Sam’s hands were warm on his waist.  The contact sizzled through him like a live wire against his skin. 

The crowd shifted and they were shoved together; Sam tugged at his hips, keeping him close.  His chin touched Martin’s shoulder and his jaw brushed Martin’s cheek with a tingling scrape of stubble.  Martin, feeling daring, wrapped his arms around Sam’s back.  He closed his eyes for a moment that stretched into several.  To be deliberately close, to be held with such obvious intent; it was both exhilarating and terrifying.  The pounding beat of the music got in his head, leaving him dizzy; his vision flickered with coloured lights.  Or maybe that was the drinks.  He stumbled and nearly fell, Sam’s steady hands holding him upright.

“Easy now,” Sam said in his ear.  Warm breath washed over his neck and he shivered.

“Sorry,” Martin mumbled.  “Dancing… not really…”  He couldn’t make the words line up. 

“You want to get out of here?” Sam asked.

Martin nodded.  He concentrated on keeping his feet under him and let Sam lead.  A tug at his wrist took him past the bar (mercifully with no more of those evil pink drinks waiting) and out the front door.  The air was a shock of cold after the heat of the club.  The sweat on his skin went icy and his back prickled into gooseflesh.  He stood there, swaying, until Sam pulled him a little further down the street.

“You live nearby?” Sam asked.

Martin blinked at him.  “Not… really.  Why?”

Sam gave him a look.  “Why do you think?”

Martin said nothing.  He could still hear the thump of the music, although possibly that was his own heartbeat, lurching along in his chest like it was trying to escape.  His breathing seemed very loud in his ears. 

“Look, I’ve got flatmates, we can’t really go back to mine.”  Sam pressed his lips together into an impatient line.  “Come on, then.”

They slid sideways, around the building.  Martin leaned one shoulder against it, comforted by the cool solid brick.  Everything else seemed to be swaying.  He gave a long, slow blink and when his eyes opened they were in an alley.  Sam pressed him back against the wall.

“You've got a good mouth,” Sam murmured from an inch away.  His breath was redolent of Bobby’s house special and Martin wrinkled up his nose.  “Saw it from across the club.  Bet you’re good with it, too.  Looks soft.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Martin said.  “What are you…”  But it was obvious what Sam was doing.  Sam had one hand on his own belt buckle and the other wrapped around the back of Martin’s neck.  He pulled, and they were kissing before Martin had time to think about it.  His eyes flew wide and he registered heat and pressure.  He thought muzzily that there should be more.  Shouldn’t there be more? 

“Come on,” Sam urged.  He licked into Martin’s mouth, and Martin let him.  More pressure, slick and wet, but he felt only numb dizziness.  The sizzling tingle of contact had fled.  He was distantly aware of dumb gratitude for the wall behind him, holding him up.

Then there was a hand pressing between his legs and his skin woke up.  Heat raced from low in his belly, spiraling out.  Sam kissed him again and rubbed him through his trousers and Martin thought: _this is happening.  This is happening now._

“Sam,” he said.  “Wait, just…”

“Yeah,” Sam muttered.  He kept rubbing, the friction on the painful side through two layers of cloth.  “Yeah, come on.”

_I don’t know his last name,_ Martin thought.  _I’m about to lose my virginity to Sam-the-plumber in an alley and I don’t even know his last name._

“You smell good,” Sam said.  His words were starting to run together in a drunken slur.

Martin was half-hard but fading and the wall was cold and gritty against his back.  The alley stank of rubbish and there was traffic to their left and anyone could walk by and _I can’t, I can’t, please, not like this, I can’t—_

“I can’t,” Martin said, and shoved Sam hard in the chest.  The other man stumbled back.  Confusion spread across his face first, and then anger.

“What?  Why not?”

“I’m sorry,” Martin said.  “I can’t.”

“Then why’d you come out here with me?”

Martin shook his head.  “I’m sorry.”

Sam threw his hands in the air.  “Fine.  Whatever.”  He turned and stalked toward the mouth of the alley.

“I’m sorry,” Martin repeated, louder. 

Sam gave a dismissive wave and disappeared around the corner.

Martin leaned against the wall for a while, breathing.  His stomach lurched and quivered but he kept it down.  He scrubbed a hand over his face.  It was fine.  A setback; he could handle setbacks.  He was an _expert_ at setbacks.

He walked home, teetering between disappointment and relief.  By the time he arrived, it was mostly relief.


	3. Cannes

“Really, Martin?  Again?”

Martin looked at Douglas over top of his book.  “What?”

“I can’t help but notice you seem to have replaced your aviator shades.”

“Well spotted,” Martin said.

“You can be my wingman anytime.”

Martin smirked.  “Sorry, I’m afraid your ego’s writing cheques that your body can’t cash.”

Douglas chuckled and settled into the deck chair beside him.  “Nicely played.” 

“Thank you.”

“So is this how you’re going to spend our down time?  Sitting here reading a book?”

“Yes.”

Douglas frowned at him.  “We’re in Cannes!  Are you really going to waste it reading… what is that?  ‘Principles of Aviation?’  Oh Martin, come on.”

“I like it,” Martin protested.  “I don’t tell you how to spend your time off.”

“Wouldn’t you be better served spending this time mingling with the locals?  Maybe meet someone special?”

Martin gave him a warning look.  “You said you wouldn’t mention it.”

“And for another four and a half weeks, mum’s the word. I’m just saying that maybe you’d enjoy a little socialising, that’s all.”   

“I’m fine here, thanks.”

“All right,” Douglas said, standing up.  “You know best, I’m sure.  See you at the airfield later.”

Martin nodded.  He read another couple pages, then let the book rest against his chest and turned his face up into the sun.  The air was mild and a soft breeze ruffled his hair.  The hotel, despite being the usual low-priced dump that Carolyn favoured, boasted a decent pool that was all but deserted in the off season. 

He closed his eyes and considered the merits of a little nap right there in the deck chair.  His limbs were pleasantly heavy and he’d applied a liberal coating of sunscreen before leaving his room; he didn’t see any reason why not.

He was just drifting off when a shadow passed over his face, blocking out the sun, and he jerked awake.  A man stood over him; backlit by the sunshine, he was a featureless silhouette.

“Hello,” the man said; his French accent was light, but noticeable.  “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“No, no,” Martin said.  “I wasn’t sleeping.  Just, um, resting a moment.”

“I didn’t mean to trouble you,” he replied.  “But I thought I recognized that book.  Principles of Aviation?”

“Yes,” Martin replied.  “You’re familiar with it?”

The man settled into the deck chair beside him, elbows propped on his knees as he sat sideways and grinned at Martin.  “Must’ve read it ten times when I was studying for my license,” he said.

“You’re a pilot?”

“Five years now,” the man agreed.  “I’m flying for a little charter outfit in Le Havre.  You?”

“Fitton.  I mean, yes, I’m a pilot.  For a charter company based in Fitton.  Martin, uh, Captain Martin Crieff.”  He stuck his hand out.

“ _Benoît_ ,” the man replied, shaking his hand.  “But please, call me Ben.  You are the _capitaine_?  You must have started very young.”

Martin sat up a little straighter.  “Yes, I did, actually.  I always knew I wanted to be a pilot.”

“And now you are,” Ben replied, and twirled one hand in a flourish.  “My _mère_ wanted me to be a lawyer and I did try law school, but no.  Not for me.  Flying is much more of an adventure, yes?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Martin said.  “When we came into Mandelieu this morning—do you know it?”

“Oh yes, that is where we landed as well.”

“Right, of course, well when we came in the crosswind was out of the south, running at least forty, maybe forty-five, gusting fifty and they’d given me the one-five right.”

Ben’s eyes widened.  “Surely you wanted the zero-seven left?”

“Well I did _ask_ for it, of course, but there were three other flights ahead of us for that runway and we didn’t have the fuel to hold for another twenty minutes, so I took us in on the one-five.”

“ _Really?_ What sort of aeroplane do you have?”

“A Lockheed McDonnell 312.”

 “ _Merde_ ,” Ben muttered.  “And you landed her?”

“Light as a feather,” Martin replied (which was not precisely true, but Gerti was still in one piece, so close enough).

“I am glad it wasn’t me,” Ben said.  “We came in last night, and I took the landing but we had the zero-seven and the wind was much lower.”

“Well, I will admit it was a bit stressful at the time,” Martin said, “but that’s how you learn!  Whenever we’ve got a difficult landing, I take it.  Best experience you can get.”

Ben cocked his head to one side.  “But does your first officer not want to learn as well?”

“Oh, he’s got loads of experience,” Martin said, flicking his fingers.

“More than you?”

Martin gave a wry grin.  “Douglas likes to remind me that he was flying when I was in primary school.”

“And yet, you are the _capitaine_ ,” Ben pointed out.  “You must be very good indeed.”

Martin blinked, and a slow smile spread across his face.  “Well.  I mean, I… yes.  I suppose so.”

“Perhaps you could teach me a few things?”

“Um, well… I’d be happy to of course, but I’m not sure how much we can do without a simulator or an actual aeroplane.”

Ben quirked one corner of his mouth up.  “Oh, I think you can still show me quite a bit, _oui?”_   He put one hand on Martin’s leg, warm against his skin.

Martin was suddenly aware that he was wearing nothing but swim trunks.  His mouth fell open.  Ben reached over and gave him a gentle tap on the chin with two fingers, shutting it again.  The sensation of that one small touch lingered long after the hand was gone. 

“Um, um, are you… do you mean…”  Martin took a deep breath.  This kind of thing did not happen to him.  Handsome young French pilots did not approach him out of the blue and come on to him.

“Yes,” Ben said.  “I do mean.”  His thumb rubbed Martin’s knee.

 “How, uh… what,” Martin said.  “How did you know I was…”

Ben shrugged.  “You will come upstairs with me?”

Martin thought perhaps he had forgotten to breathe; everything seemed to be rushing past him.  This was not his luck.  A pilot who thought _he_ was brilliant, who _liked_ talking about flying, and who wanted more, practically falling gift-wrapped into his lap?  This sort of thing might happen to _Douglas_ but…

Wait.

“Did he put you up to this?”

A confused line appeared between Ben’s eyebrows a second too late.  “Who?”

“Douglas.  Did he tell you—what did he tell you?”

“Martin, I… well, yes, all right, I did meet him in the breakfast room at the hotel,” Ben admitted.  “He was still wearing his uniform and I introduced myself; I am always interested in meeting a fellow pilot.  We had a brief _délibération_ but he only suggested we might get along.  He said I would probably find you reading by the pool later.  Nothing more.”

“Right,” Martin said.  “Right.  Suppose he told you about the bet too, then?  Thought the two of you could have a laugh over it?  Were you going to compare notes after… after you…”

“No!”  Ben shook his head and held up a placating hand.  “I know of no bet.  Please, I did not mean to upset you.”

Martin drew his knees up to his chest and put his arms around them.  He was grateful that his sunglasses hid his eyes.  “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly.  “I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time.  Please excuse me.  I need to have a word with my first officer.”

*

He found Douglas in his room, getting ready to go out.  He hammered on the door until Douglas opened it and then swept past him into the room.

“Martin.  And to what do I owe the pleasure of sir’s visit?”

“Don’t you start,” Martin snapped.  “You know exactly why I’m here.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me,” Douglas replied. 

Martin spun and glared at him.  “Tell me one thing, Douglas.  When you sent Ben to me, was it a deliberate plan to humiliate me, or was that just a lovely side effect?”

Douglas had the nerve to look surprised.  “Who is Ben?”

“Don’t you dare,” Martin said.  “Don’t you dare try to lie to me about this.  He admitted you sent him!  Is this what you call keeping quiet?  It hasn’t even been two weeks, and you’re already… who else have you told?  Carolyn?  Arthur?  Why don’t you just take out an ad in the paper and be done with it?”

“If you mean _Benoît,_ I didn’t tell him anything except your name, a general description of your appearance, and where you could be found,” Douglas said calmly.  “Didn’t you get on?”

Martin huffed.  “Oh, yes, we got on terribly well, until he tried to take me up to his room!”

“And you thought the better alternative would be to come to _my_ room?”

“Well I certainly wasn’t going with him!”

“Why not?”

“You—you can’t…”  Martin threw his hands in the air.  “I am not losing my _virginity_ to someone you have _picked out_ for me!”

“Well you’re certainly not losing it to anyone you’ve picked out,” Douglas countered.  “He seemed like a nice chap and talked rather incessantly about flying at breakfast.  I thought he’d be right up your alley.  Literally and figuratively.”

“ _Douglas_.”

“Don’t sound so scandalised.  What’s wrong with a friend setting you up?  People go on blind dates arranged by their friends all the time.”

“Yes, but usually they _know_ about it,” Martin said.

“Would you have agreed if you knew?”

“No!”

“Right, so, that’s why I didn’t tell you.”  Douglas looked at him with something suspiciously close to compassion.  “You’re making too much of this.  I was trying to help—rather selflessly, I might add, since it means I’d lose our bet.” 

Martin deflated a bit and sat on the end of the bed.  His shoulders sagged and he rubbed a hand over his face.  “You really didn’t tell him anything else?”

“Not a word,” Douglas said.  “Not to him or anyone.  I promised I’d keep it to myself and I have.  I may have an especially keen sense of humour but I am not _cruel,_ Martin.”

“No, I know you’re not,” Martin said.  “I’m sorry.  But please don’t do this again.  I don’t want to wonder if every new person I meet is someone you’ve chosen.”

“Very well,” Douglas agreed.  “If it helps, the gentleman in question clearly liked you well enough to invite you to his room.  That was your doing, not mine.”

A small smile tugged at Martin’s lips.  “It was, wasn’t it?”

“He’s still staying here, you know.  You could ask the front desk for his room number.”

“No,” Martin said.  “Not after the way I chased him off.”

“Come to the beach with me, then.”

“Really?”

“Sure, why not,” Douglas replied.  “It’s a lovely day, and it would be a shame to waste those sunglasses.  Besides, Arthur will be there and he said he’s bringing everything he’ll need to make _brilliant_ sand castles.”

Martin laughed.  “Well,” he said, “we can’t miss that, can we?”


	4. The Client

Martin took a deep breath, put on his best professional smile, and knocked on the door.  There was a long pause; it remained closed.  He frowned and glanced at his watch.  They’d arranged the pick-up for eight in the morning and it was ten after.  He normally wasn’t late for his van jobs but they’d landed well after dark the night before and he’d overslept. 

He knocked again, and leaned on the doorbell for good measure.  This time there was a muffled voice and a patter of footsteps, and the door opened.  The man on the other side looked like he’d just rolled out of bed.  He wore pale blue pyjama bottoms slung low on his hips, a sleeveless tee, and his dark hair stuck up in tufts.  His toffee-coloured skin looked burnished and smooth against the white shirt and Martin jerked his gaze up with effort.

“Hello,” he said.  “Icarus Removals.  I’m here about the move?”

“Yeah,” the man replied.  “C’mon in.”  He stepped back, edging around a pile of boxes in the hallway.

“Are you Mr. Carrigan?” Martin asked.

“Right,” the man replied.  “Call me Theo.  You’re… uh… sorry, I forgot.”

“Martin,” he said.  “Are these all the boxes?  Any furniture?”

“Yeah,” Theo said.  “I mean, no.  There’s… look, give me a minute, okay?  I just woke up.”  He offered Martin an apologetic grin.  “I can’t think properly before I’ve had my coffee.  Get you a cup?”

“Sure, thanks,” Martin said.  It was always a nice surprise when his van clients treated him like a person, rather than a pack horse.

There were boxes all over the kitchen; most of the cupboards were empty but a kettle and a tin of coffee sat on the counter.  “Last things to pack,” Theo said as he ran water from the sink.  “I haven’t got any milk in, sorry.  Emptied out the fridge last week.”

“That’s fine, I like it black,” Martin replied.

Theo chuckled.  “Braver man than me, then.  I can’t stand the stuff without loads of sugar.  I even got some of that awful powdered creamer when I ran out of milk.”

Martin sat on one of the tall bar stools beside the kitchen island and watched as Theo busily measured scoops of coffee.  He groped for a topic of conversation.  “So, you’re moving across town?  You wanted to be closer to work, or something?”

“Nah, I’ll be further away, actually,” Theo replied.  “I’m an accountant; I do the books for a small regional paper company.  Before you ask, yes, it’s even more dull than it sounds.”

Martin gave a soft laugh.  “So why the move?”

“Place isn’t mine.  The lease was in my partner’s name and when we broke up, he gave me a month to get out.  Time’s up.”  Theo’s tone was matter-of-fact, but his nonchalant shrug looked forced.  He passed Martin’s coffee across the counter and stood on the other side, sipping from his own cup.

“Thanks,” Martin murmured.  “I’m, uh, sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, well.”  Theo gave him a thin-lipped smile.  “It happens.  Good news for you, I guess.  Most of the furniture is his.  I’ve just got clothes, books, and kitchen stuff.”

“He’s not here?”

Theo shook his head.  “Staying with a friend.  We decided it would be weird to still live together after things had ended.  At least he was decent about it and gave me time to find a new place and save up for the security deposit.  He could’ve thrown me out on the street.”

“That is good,” Martin agreed.  He wasn’t sure what to say next, and took a big gulp of his coffee.

“Sorry,” Theo said.  “I’m over-sharing, aren’t I?  I do that.  Tim always said…”  He took a deep breath.  “Never mind.”

“It’s all right,” Martin said.  “I really don’t mind.”

“You’ll regret saying that later when I won’t shut up about him,” Theo replied wryly.

Martin shrugged.  “Better than carrying boxes around in silence.”

Theo nodded.  “Speaking of which, we’d better get going.  You saw the ones in the hall and there’s more back in our… my room.  You going to have enough space?”

“Should do,” Martin replied.  He drained the coffee cup and set it down.  “Thanks for the coffee.  I’ll get started.”

“Give me a minute to wash up and I’ll help.” 

Martin blinked in surprise as Theo disappeared down the hall.  He heard running water a minute later.  He gave both coffee mugs a cursory wash and then went to size up the boxes in the hall.  They were big, and when he hefted one, his back gave a warning twinge.  Books, probably; should go toward the bottom of the pile. 

He managed to get two of the heavy boxes loaded by the time Theo emerged from his room.  He was dressed in jeans now, but had kept the same shirt.  His hair was damp and uncombed and he hadn’t bothered to shave. 

“Right,” Theo said, eying the remaining pile of boxes.  “You’re the expert.  What do we take next?”

Martin directed and Theo pitched in willingly, the two of them carrying the heaviest boxes together and the lighter ones in individual trips.  With two people doing the work, they managed in a little over an hour; half the time Martin had budgeted.  Certainly easier on his back, and a pleasant change of pace over doing all the work alone, but since he got paid by the hour it didn’t spell good news for his bank account.

He closed the doors to his van after Theo had done a final check, making sure they had everything.  Theo locked the front door and then stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the house.

“You all right?” Martin asked after a moment.

“Yeah,” Theo said.  “Yeah.  Fine.”  He cleared his throat noisily.  “Let’s get going.”

“I don’t have the address; do you want me to follow your car, or…”

Theo shook his head.  "Don't have a car.  That was his too.  Okay if I ride with you?”      

“Of course.”  They climbed into the van; Martin shoved a pile of logbooks off the passenger seat to make room.  Theo picked one up as they pulled away from the curb.

“Get on the highway and go north,” Theo said.  “What’s this?”

“It’s a logbook,” Martin replied.  “I use it to keep track of my flight hours.”

“You’re a pilot?”

Martin nodded.  “It’s a hobby.”  Which was a much simpler explanation than: ‘I’m an unpaid airline captain.’

“Sounds like fun,” Theo said.  “I couldn’t do it.  I get airsick.”

“You don’t also get carsick, do you?”

Theo laughed.  “No, don’t worry, I’m fine in cars.  It’s just something about aeroplanes.  When we flew to Rome last year, I spent the whole trip in the loo.  Tim had to beg the stewardess to let me stay there; she wanted to make me stay in my seat.”

“That’s only for passenger safety,” Martin replied.  “Turbulence can be unexpected and when the Captain has the seatbelt sign on it’s for a good reason.  You’re really much safer in your seat; they’re designed to remain stable in a catastrophic event, although statistically that is incredibly unlikely…”  He trailed off, aware that Theo was giving him a bemused look.  “I, ah, fly rather often,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Theo replied, smiling.  “Better you than me.  You must really like it, huh?”

Martin nodded but didn’t elaborate.  He knew how he could drone on when he got started on flying, and the last thing he wanted was to bore Theo.  Not when the man had such an inviting crooked grin.  He changed the subject instead.  “I’ve been to Rome a few times. What did you think?”

Theo chattered happily about Rome; they’d seen many of the same landmarks.  Theo navigated for them, and they arrived at a small, squalid clump of flats sooner than Martin would have liked.  He backed the van into a parking space and they climbed out.  Theo sighed.  “It’s okay, you can say it,” he said.  “Nowhere near as nice as my old place.”

“It’s not so bad,” Martin offered.  “You’re off the main road here.  Nice and quiet.”

Theo gave a grim chuckle.  “Yeah.  That’s something.”  He unlocked the front door and called back, “There’s stairs.  Sorry.”

“No problem,” Martin replied.  He opened the back of the van, and they started unloading.  There were indeed stairs; two flights of them in a narrow, poorly lit hallway.  There wasn’t enough space for both of them to walk side by side so they had to take turns.  They managed the biggest boxes together, with Theo walking backward up the stairs holding one side, and Martin pushing from below.

The last three boxes were the heaviest and when the final one landed on the living room floor with a thud, they were both sweating and breathing hard.  Theo flopped on the floor beside the pile of boxes and leaned back against it.  He patted the floor at his side.  “Catch your breath,” he said.  “In a minute, I’ll hunt down the box with the glasses and we can have some water.”

“Thank you,” Martin said, and sat beside him.  “You really don’t have to do that.  I mean, I appreciate it, but it’s okay.  And thank you for your help carrying all the boxes.” 

Theo gave him a sidelong look.  “Well I was hardly going to sit there and watch you do all the work.”

“Most people do,” Martin replied.

“Then most people are wankers.”  Theo grinned.  “You shouldn’t let them get away with that.”

Martin spread his hands.  “It’s my job to move their stuff, not theirs.  That’s what they’re paying for.  I won’t charge you full price, by the way.  You did half the work.”

“No, no, I’ll pay what we agreed,” Theo replied.  “I hired you to help me move and here I am, all moved.  Job done.  I’m not going to short you.”

“That’s not—”

 “Hush,” Theo said, holding up a hand.  He dug in his pocket with the other hand and pulled out several bills.  He pushed them into Martin’s palm and folded his fingers shut over them.  “There.  No argument.”

“Thanks,” Martin said, slipping the money into his pocket.  “I know which box has the glasses; I’ll get us some water.”  He stood and rummaged through the box he’d marked ‘Kitchen-delicate’ while Theo stretched and rolled his shoulders.

“My plan all along,” Theo said, grinning up at him.

Martin returned the smile and went into the kitchen.  The fridge was empty and unplugged, but water ran in the sink just fine.  He ran them both a glass and carried them back into the living room.  Theo accepted his and they sat together, shoulders brushing. 

Theo drained his glass and looked at the pile of boxes.  “Guess I should unpack.”

“Right,” Martin said.  “I, um, I should be going then?”

“Mmm.”  Theo didn’t make any move to get up.

“I have another job this afternoon,” Martin said.  “But we finished early; you made it faster by helping.  So, I’ve got some time to spare.”

Theo raised an eyebrow at him.  “You offering to help me unpack?”

“Well, if you want… I mean, actually, I was…”  Martin took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.  Three weeks to go.  He could do this.  “I was thinking—a new place isn’t really yours until you’ve… had a little housewarming.”  He put a hand on Theo’s knee.

“Oh,” Theo said.  “Oh!  You… oh.  Wow, I didn’t… really?”

“Yes.” 

“Martin, I’m… I’m really, really flattered.  And believe me—after getting dumped, you’ve just done wonders for my confidence.  Also, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re gorgeous.”

Martin flushed and looked away.  “But you’re saying no.”

“Yeah,” Theo agreed.  “I’m just not ready.  I’m not over Tim and it wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“Right,” Martin said.  “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.  I mean that, I really appreciate you asking.  Look, keep my number, okay?  I’m saying not right now—that’s not the same as never.”

Martin nodded.  “Okay.  Keep mine too.”

“I will.  Thank you.”  Theo walked him to the door, squeezed his hand, and brushed a kiss on his cheek. 

Martin got into the van.  He saw Theo waving to him from the doorway, and he waved back.  He even managed a smile.

He held on for three blocks, and then he pulled over and put his face in his hands.


	5. The Set-Up

Carolyn nearly tripped over him when she entered the porta-cabin; she gave him an irritated look and he moved his feet, scooting his chair back. 

“Martin,” she said.  “It is half-six in the morning.  What are you doing here?”

“Just catching up on some work,” Martin replied.  “You?”

“It is none of your business what I am doing here,” she replied archly.  “This is my office and I will come and go as I choose.”

“Right,” Martin said.  “Of course.”

“But if you must know, I came to work on the books.  It’s tax season.  I was doing them at home, but Arthur is in one of his singing moods today.”

“Ah,” Martin said.  He poked disconsolately at the pile of folders on the desk; flight plans for the next month, all complete and neatly organized. 

Carolyn gave him a long, even stare.  “All right, what is it?”

“What?  Nothing.  What do you mean?”

She lifted an eyebrow and pursed her lips.  “You are moping.  You have carried around your own personal grey cloud for the past two weeks and I am tired of it.  You are constantly underfoot, you’re doing your work and everyone else’s—on Tuesday I caught you dusting the fire extinguishers.  Dusting!  I can assure you, if we need a fire extinguisher, our first priority will not be whether it is clean.”

“Oh,” Martin said.  “Didn’t realise you’d noticed.  I’m just keeping busy.”

“If this is some plan to guilt-trip me into paying you, it won’t work.  It will only irritate me into further cutting your food and hotel budget.”

“No, no,” Martin said.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I’ll try to stop.”

Carolyn sighed and perched on the edge of the desk with an exasperated air.  “You haven’t been kicked out of that awful flat, have you?  If I find out you are homeless and haven’t told anyone—“

“No,” Martin interrupted.  “No, of course not.  I’m not completely helpless, you know; I’ve managed to pay my rent for nine years.”  He lifted his chin.  “I’ve never been late with it.”

“How delightfully responsible of you,” Carolyn replied dryly.  She met Martin’s eyes; he shifted and looked away.  When he glanced back at her, her face had softened.  “Whatever it is,” she said, “I trust it will not prevent you from flying to Montreal today?”

“I’ll be fine,” he replied.

“And if you are less than fine, you will inform me immediately.  I do not relish the idea of refunding a client’s money for a last minute cancellation.”  Her voice took on an odd note; one he’d only heard her use with Arthur.  “You are aware that you _can_ tell me, of course.”

“Yes,” Martin said softly.  “Thank you.”

“Good.”  She stood and smoothed down her skirt.  “Now, since you’re here anyway, make yourself useful and restock the drinks cupboard.  Arthur always manages to forget at least one bottle.  It’s a marketing convention; we’ll probably need all of them.”

He gave a soft huff of laughter and nodded.  She tossed him the keys and disappeared into her office, a bundle of ledger books under one arm.

*

Martin did actually feel a bit brighter as he carried a sack of liquor bottles out to Gertie.  The sun was coming up and the sky was fading from deep blue to peach and turquoise in the east; it looked like a beautiful day to fly.  Besides, it was foolish to let such a small thing upset him so much.  It was hardly the first time he’d been rejected.  There was a _reason_ he was still… flying solo, as it were. 

So he had a week left and it probably wasn’t going to happen.  That was fine.  Douglas would tease him a bit but then he’d get tired of the subject once he’d milked it for jokes.  They would move on.  Martin had been fine for thirty-two years and he would continue to be so.  It had been a silly idea in the first place.  Had he really thought that his luck would somehow change just because he had a bet on?  Or that he’d be motivated and charming and sweep someone off his feet? 

No.  He was still Martin, after all.

After he’d lined up the bottles, strapped them in place, and locked the cupboard, he wandered up to the flight deck.  Gertie faced east, and he settled into his chair to watch the sunrise.  He ran his fingers over the control panel; the contours were smooth and familiar under his hands.  Being up here always filled him with a calm sense of purpose and he felt the ‘grey cloud’ Carolyn had noticed begin to fade. 

It wasn’t so bad, being alone, really.  He had his work; two jobs kept a man rather busy.  He chatted with the students sometimes.  They weren’t friends exactly, but he knew their names and they seemed to have a certain fondness for him.  Like a mascot.  Or a pet.  Then there was MJN, Carolyn and Douglas and Arthur.  They were his friends.  He had travel and flying and four stripes on his arm.  Could be a lot worse.

_(“Hmm.  So you’ve given up?”_

_“No, I wouldn’t say… I mean, I do have other responsibilities, I can’t spend all my time... it’s not fair to say that I’ve just given up.  It sounds pathetic when you say it that way.”_

_“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”)_

Martin shook his head, pushing the thought aside.  He hadn’t given up again.  He had made a practical decision.  Nothing wrong with that.

He heard the main door open, and then Arthur’s distinctive stride.  The man never seemed to just walk anywhere.  He skipped or shuffled or galumphed up the aisle.  “Skip?” he called.  “Mum said you were in here.”

“Up here,” he called back. 

Arthur came up behind him.  “Morning,” he said.  “Nice sunrise, isn’t it?”

“Even better from the air.”  Martin turned and gestured to the co-pilot seat.  “Pull up a chair.”

Arthur beamed.  “Thanks!”  He trailed a reverent fingertip over the yoke as he settled into the seat. 

“Did you come out here to get Gertie ready for the flight?”

“No, she’s already ready,” Arthur replied.  “I came out here because Mum said if she heard me sing ‘Lollipop’ one more time she would not be responsible for her actions.”

Martin smiled.  “Ah.”

“I was just having a singing sort of morning.  Do you have those?  Sometimes things just seem a bit extra brilliant, don’t they?”

“Hm,” Martin said.  “Lately things have seemed rather un-brilliant to me.”

“How come?”

Martin shrugged.  “I asked someone out a couple weeks ago.  I thought we were really hitting it off, but he turned me down.”

“Oh, right,” Arthur said.  “And then what happened?”

“What do you mean?  Then I went home.”

“Oh,” Arthur said.  “I just thought there was more.  I mean, it was two weeks ago, right?  Lots of people have said they won’t date me.  _Lots._ But pretty soon I forget about it.  You should do what I do.”

“Forget about it?”

“No—well, yeah, but I go out with someone else instead.  That makes it a lot easier.”

Martin shook his head.  “There isn’t exactly a queue around the block for dating me.”

“Why not?” Arthur asked.  “I think you’re brilliant.”

“You think everyone is brilliant,” Martin said.  “But thank you.”

Arthur looked thoughtful for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip.  “I know!  You should go out with Jeff.”

“And who is Jeff?”

“Oh, I dated him for a few months a while ago.  He’s really nice and a lot of fun—I think you’d like him.  He even likes flying.  And we’re still friends; I bet if I asked he’d see you.”

“I didn’t even know you liked men,” Martin said.

“I like everyone,” Arthur replied.  “Mostly.”  He considered this; a line appeared between his eyebrows and he cocked his head to one side.  “Maybe not Mr. Birling.”

 “Good to know you have such rigorous standards.”

Arthur nodded happily.  “So, you’ll go out with Jeff?”

Martin hesitated.  A blind date sounded awkward and stressful.  It also felt a bit strange to consider someone Arthur had previously dated.  On the other hand, he only had a week left.  Maybe he wasn’t quite ready to give up after all.

“Okay,” he said.  “Call him.”

*

Jeff, as it turned out, was absurdly attractive.  He was about thirty-five, with a golden tan and the kind of artfully tousled blond hair that looked effortless but probably took both skill and practice.  His grin was wide and even: perfect white teeth.  Broad shoulders and trim waist; his square, blunt fingered hands suggested manual labour but his smooth professional manicure said otherwise.

He showed up at the restaurant on time, which Martin considered a point in his favour.  He was nervous enough without standing around wondering if he was being stood up.  Jeff strode up, shook his hand, and flashed that blinding smile.  “Martin?” he asked.  “You must be.  Arthur described you to a tee.” 

Martin blinked, startled; he hadn’t been expecting an American accent.  “Yes,” he said.  “Jeff, I presume?”

“Right.”  Jeff’s eyes crinkled at the corners but his forehead remained smooth and weirdly still.  Martin tried not to stare.  “Shall we?”

Martin nodded and followed him in; Jeff immediately took charge of securing them a table.  He also ordered drinks for both of them (Martin thought of Sam with an internal wince, but pushed it away).

“So,” Martin began.  “Where are you from?”

“California,” Jeff replied.  “But that’s probably obvious, huh?  I still haven’t lost the beach look.  Damn hard to keep a tan in England, let me tell you.”  He chuckled.  His forehead did that strange immobility thing again when he laughed and Martin thought— _Botox._

Then, like pins falling into place, all the signs clicked together.  The tan, the teeth, the manicure and professional blond highlights—put that together with the Botox and the California origin and: _oh god, he’s a Hollywood actor or something.  Arthur set me up with a movie star._

“Are you an actor?” Martin blurted out.

Jeff smiled.  “Not everyone in California is an actor, you know.  But yes, actually, I am.  I moved to London originally to do theater, but…”  He flicked the fingers of one hand and gave a half shrug. 

“Nobody ever plans to move to Fitton,” Martin said.

“Ha!  Exactly.”  Jeff took a sip of his drink.  Martin had a little of his own, pleased to find it fairly mild.  He caught himself watching the sleek movement of Jeff’s throat as he swallowed.  Going by the smirk on his face, Jeff had caught him too.

“So, you know Arthur?” Martin asked.

“Ah, Arthur.”  Jeff leaned back and gestured expansively.  “Something else, isn’t he?”

Martin nodded.  “One of a kind.”

“He’s told me stories about all of you guys at that airline.  I don’t know how you handle working with him every day.  I’d go nuts.”

A tingle of disquiet sank into Martin’s chest.  “What?”

Jeff laughed and waved a hand.  “Come on, the constant chatter?  The endless requests to play charades?  The game of _yellow car_ that never stops?  And then there’s the incredible gullibility.  I mean, I don’t claim to be a genius or anything, but at least I’m not _stupid._ ”

Martin stiffened.  “And yet you dated him for months.”

“Well, yeah,” Jeff said.  “Mainly for the sex.  You wouldn’t know it to look at him but he’s incredible in the sack.  Uninhibited and up for anything—really damn good.  I put up with the rest of it just for that until I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“I see.”  Martin set his drink down and dabbed at his mouth with the napkin.  He placed it back on the table afterward, folded edge lined up, every movement icy and precise.  His lips pressed into a thin line.  “Is this normally the sort of thing you discuss on a first date?”

“Oh, come on,” Jeff said.  “Don’t get uptight.  We’re all adults here.”

“Is that what you told Arthur?”

“Nah,” Jeff replied.  “Told him I needed ‘space to focus on my work,’ but I wanted to stay friends.  Was hoping he’d be up for friends with benefits, but not so much.  Still,” he added, leaning forward with a grin, “maybe you will be.”

“You’re very direct.”

Jeff nodded.  “No point dancing around it; we both know why we’re here and it’s not for some flowery romance.  Leave that to the girls, am I right?  Let’s cut to the chase.”

“Yes,” Martin said.  “Let’s.”  He pushed back from the table and stood.  Something hot knotted in his belly and buzzed in his ears.  His fingernails dug into his palms.  “Arthur is the kindest, most selfless, and most generous person I know—and you didn’t deserve him.”

Jeff gave a low chuckle and rolled his eyes.  “Fine, whatever.  Flounce off with your panties in a bunch.  You really think you’re better than me?”

“Better than a shallow, selfish out-of-work actor with a fake tan and bad Botox?”  Martin grinned.  “You know, I rather think I am.”

It was tremendously satisfying to see Jeff’s jaw drop before he turned and walked away.


	6. Venice

“What is today?”

Martin’s jaw tightened.  “Thursday.”

“Yes, thank you,” Douglas replied.  “Clearly we would all be lost without Sir’s ability to read a wall chart.  I was actually referring to—”

“I know what you were referring to,” Martin said.  “And don’t.”

“Just wondering if you’d forgotten.”

“As if I could,” Martin replied.  “Do recall that you said you’d ‘leave it alone’ and that I ‘wouldn’t hear a peep out of you.’”

“For six weeks,” Douglas agreed.  “A generous time frame, I would have thought.”

Martin scowled and said nothing.  His fingers curled around the yoke.  The flight deck hummed with the sound of the engines; a steady low drone that he’d long ago learned to block out.  They were above the clouds, the sky a pale and endless wintry blue ahead. 

“And yet…”

“Stop it,” Martin muttered.  “My time’s not up yet.”

“Quite correct,” Douglas replied.  He consulted his watch with far more dramatic emphasis than was called for.  “You’ve got a good five hours in hand before midnight.  Could still make it, I suppose.  Assuming you pull someone in Venice.  In a shabby hotel.  After ten at night.”

“It’s only seven,” Martin protested.

“Ah, but you forget, we’ve still got to land.  No passengers, so for the next three hours your choices are Arthur or Carolyn.  Best of luck.”

Martin didn’t reply.  He knew Douglas had meant it as a joke, but ever since the disastrous date with Jeff, he couldn’t quite stop thinking about it.  _Uninhibited and up for anything._ Fair enough, that did sound like Arthur, although he’d never imagined their irrepressible steward in quite that way before.  If asked, he probably would have said the only things Arthur enjoyed in bed were blanket forts and footie pyjamas, with possibly a little light cuddling. 

Which was foolish, he supposed.  Arthur had an active social life; he always seemed to be dating someone.  He was gullible and sweet but he was not a child.  He was approachable, kind, and now that Martin thought about it, he did have lovely deep brown eyes.  It was no wonder he seemed to pull people without even trying. 

Still, it was difficult to reconcile soft-hearted Arthur—the man who had once begged him to make a ten thousand pound diversion to save the life of a mean-spirited cat—with the concept of Arthur as an adult who had casual sex.  Who was apparently _incredible_ at casual sex.

Martin shot to his feet.  “You have control.”

“I have control,” Douglas replied mildly.  “Everything all right?”

“Fine.  Back in a minute.” 

He went through the galley and tiptoed past the first row, where Carolyn was curled on two seats, napping.  She often did on long cargo flights, and Martin had learned the hard way that she did not appreciate being woken early. 

Arthur was further back, sitting in a window seat overlooking the starboard wing.  His forehead pressed against the glass and his wide, fascinated gaze was fixed on the flaps.  Martin slid in beside him, and Arthur turned, offering him a sunny smile.

“Hi, Skip,” he said.  “I’m just watching the wings.  I think I’ve almost figured out how the flaps work.”

“That’s good.”  Martin gave him a long, assessing look.  He tried to see past his mental picture of Arthur and look at him as a stranger.  He was tall, with thick brown hair that looked rather soft.  Broad shoulders and well formed arms; an endearing touch of pudge around the belly.  Martin remembered watching him push a piano, and when he leaned over in jeans he had a very nice arse indeed.  His smile was open and honest and his nose had a pert up-tilt at the tip. 

Knowing Arthur as he did, the first word to describe his appearance would have been _adorable,_ but—yes, when he looked away and stared thoughtfully at the wing and the clear pale sunlight picked out the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw—he could definitely qualify as _sexy._    

“Skip?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you want something?”

Martin opened his mouth, then closed it again.  He took a deep breath.  “Arthur… was Jeff good to you?  I mean, did he treat you all right?”

“Well, yeah,” Arthur replied.  “Of course.  I wouldn’t have set you up with him if he wasn’t nice.”

“Of course,” Martin echoed.

“Nice to _you,”_ Arthur continued.  “He got a bit shouty with me sometimes, but only because I wasn’t smart enough for him.  It makes people frustrated sometimes.  I knew you’d be smart enough for him though, so that’s all right.”

“Oh,” Martin said.  “Does that happen to you often?”

“Yeah,” Arthur said.  His smile dimmed a little.  “I’m sure he liked you better.  How did it go?”

“Not that well,” Martin replied.  “I don’t think that’s going to work out.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.  But don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find someone else.”

Martin nodded.  “You know, I think I might.”

*

The hotel was far nicer than expected.  Carolyn looked at Douglas with open suspicion when they checked in, and doubly so when they saw their rooms.  Not grand staterooms, but they were clean and cozy with large, soft beds and balconies overlooking the bay.

“Let me guess,” she said.  “You know someone who knows someone who owes you a favour?”

Douglas gave her an enigmatic smile.  “You would prefer the ‘Damp and Mousetrap’ instead?”

“As long as it’s not coming out of my budget, fiddle with the accommodations all you like,” she replied. 

“I think it’s brilliant,” Arthur added, skipping through his room.  “Look, you can see all the boats!”

“Yes,” Douglas said.  “Well spotted.  There is, I fear, just one small catch.”

“Of course there is,” Carolyn muttered.

“Very minor,” Douglas continued smoothly.  “You may have noticed when we checked in there were only three room keys.”

“If you are about to suggest I have to spend my evening listening to Arthur talk about boats…”

“No, no,” Douglas said.  “Not _you._ ”

As one, he and Carolyn turned to look at Martin.  He stared back at them, giving Douglas a particularly hard gaze.  This felt like a deliberate scheme; one last little nudge.  Douglas ‘helping’ again.

“Fine,” he said.  “I’ll share with Arthur.”

“You will?” Arthur asked, popping up beside him.  “Great!  It’ll be like a slumber party!”

“Won’t it just,” Douglas replied.  The wink he tipped Martin was laden with meaning.  Then he disappeared into his own room.

Carolyn missed none of this; she eyed Martin thoughtfully.  “Well,” she said.  “Good night.  Do try to remember I am next door and keep the party quiet.”

Martin flushed beet red; Arthur just grinned.  “Righto, Mum,” he said.  “Good night!”

Arthur tugged him into their room and out to the balcony.  Martin had to admit the view was enchanting.  The moonlight dappled the water and gave the boats an ethereal quality.  They slipped through the water in near silence; the bay looked black and depthless beneath.  The air was sharp with salt, and nippy; Martin wrapped his arms around himself and shivered.

They watched for a while, leaning against the railing, shoulders brushing together.  Martin was aware of the soft rhythm of Arthur’s breathing and the warmth radiating from his side.  He closed his eyes and leaned a little closer. 

“Martin?”

He turned his head, startled.  Arthur almost never called him by name.  “Yes?”

“Why did Douglas want us to share a room?”

“Oh, ah… you know Douglas.  He’s always got a plan going, doesn’t he?”

“Right,” Arthur said, nodding.  “But what is it this time?”

“I don’t know,” Martin replied.  “No idea.  None at all.  Could be anything, really.”

Arthur’s gaze was steady.  His hand slid across the railing and his fingertips brushed Martin’s wrist, cool and soft.  “You could tell me,” he said.  “I wouldn’t laugh.”

“W-what makes you think there’s…” 

“I know I’m not good at a lot of things,” Arthur said.  “But I’m not _stupid._ ”

“No,” Martin replied quietly.  “No, you’re not.”  He drew a long, measured breath.  Arthur waited.  His face was still, his eyes a reflected gleam of moonlight.  “Would you help me with something?”

“Sure, no problem,” Arthur said.

“It’s a big favour,” Martin warned.  “Very big.”

“I’m very good at helping,” Arthur said blithely. 

“Right.  Yes.”  Martin worried at his bottom lip, then looked out over the water.  It was easier to say when he couldn’t see Arthur.  “We made a bet.  I had six weeks to win the bet and I’m almost out of time.  Tonight’s the last night, actually.”

“Okay,” Arthur said.  “And you want me to help you win?”

Martin nodded.  “You see, Douglas found out I’m… I’ve never…”  He gripped the railing with both hands and closed his eyes.  “I’m a virgin,” he whispered.  His shoulders hunched into a tense line and he went still.

There was quiet, and then Arthur’s hand again, gently uncurling his fingers from their death grip on the balcony rail.  “Okay,” Arthur said.  He smoothed his palm over Martin’s hand and gave a soft squeeze to his wrist.  “What do you have to do to win the bet?”

Martin blinked down at their hands.  “I have to, you know… stop being a virgin.”

“Oh.  Ohhhhhh,” Arthur said in tones of dawning realisation.  “Well, it’s kind of late, but I bet if we went out you could meet someone.  I’ll help you meet someone.”

“No,” Martin said.  “No, I tried that.  I don’t want some random encounter with a stranger.”

“Oh, right,” Arthur said.  “Then how did you want me to help?”

Martin turned to look at him.  He raised one hand, a little alarmed to notice it was trembling.  He brushed the pads of his fingers over Arthur’s cheek; a light, whispering touch.  Arthur’s eyes went wide.  “You don’t have to,” Martin said quickly.  “Only if you want…”

Arthur took his hand and turned it, then pressed a kiss to his palm.  Martin’s mouth went dry.  He swallowed, making a dull click in his throat.  His head buzzed and a rushing sound filled his ears, like water over rocks.

“I thought you might be asking me,” Arthur said.  His voice had gone different; lower, softer.  Self-possessed and calm.  “But I didn’t want to get it wrong.  Not this.”

Martin nodded.  His mouth worked but no words came out.  Arthur smiled at him; not his usual broad grin but something subtle and heated.  “Come on,” he said.  He was still holding Martin’s hand and he pulled him back into the room, shutting the balcony door behind them.  He turned in the middle of the room and stepped close, their hands still linked together.  “What do you like?”

“I don’t know,” Martin said.  “Anything.”

“Okay.  We’ll start slow.”  Arthur cupped his jaw in one hand, a thumb stroking his cheekbone.  “Close your eyes.”

Martin did; it was an immediate relief.  He hadn’t been sure where to look.  Arthur’s face was familiar and comforting, but it also felt a little strange to see in this context.  He leaned into the hand on his cheek.  Warm breath washed over his lips, and then Arthur kissed him.  It was light and soft; a bare moment of contact before lifting away.  He tilted his jaw up, chasing the touch.

“Shh,” Arthur murmured.  “Slow.  Just be still.”

Martin tried, but his heart was in his throat and his stomach was tied in knots.  He could feel fine tremors coursing down his spine.  His hands tugged fretfully at the hem of his jacket; he wasn’t sure where to put them.

Arthur ran his hands down Martin’s sides in a long, soothing stroke and then caught his wrists.  He wrapped Martin’s arms around his waist, giving them a little pat: _stay._ He pulled Martin into a hug and cupped the back of his head with one hand.  His fingers carded through Martin’s hair.  His other hand continued the slow slides up and down his back, from the nape of his neck to his tailbone. 

They stood like that, pressed close, quiet.  Martin felt his heartbeat slow as the tension went out of his shoulders.  He leaned on Arthur and his breathing fell into an unconscious rhythm, matching the pace of Arthur’s hand on his back.  He squeezed Arthur around the waist and Arthur squeezed him back; Martin felt something loosen in his chest.

Martin turned his head, resting his cheek on Arthur’s shoulder and burrowing into the hollow of his neck.  He pressed a kiss to the skin there, daring.  Arthur made a soft, amused sound.  He pulled back enough to rest their foreheads together and dropped tiny kisses to the corners of Martin’s mouth.  He was smiling; Martin could feel the curve of his lips. 

“Better?” Arthur asked.

Martin nodded.  His eyes were still closed.  Arthur kissed his cheeks and then his forehead and down the bridge of his nose.  He nibbled the line of his jaw, leaving tingling points of feeling as the moisture evaporated on his skin.  He steered Martin’s head to one side, exposing his throat, and sucked another line of kisses from his ear to his collarbone.  Martin caught his breath as a low throb of arousal bloomed in his belly. 

Arthur did something with his hands and suddenly cool air washed over his back and shoulders as his jacket slipped away.  He fumbled with the buttons on Arthur’s shirt; shouldn’t he reciprocate?  That was how this worked: your partner undresses you, you undress him.  He was fairly sure that if there were a manual, that would be in it. 

But Arthur gently steered his hands away, lifting each one to his lips to press a kiss on the inside of his wrists.  “I’ll do that,” he said.  “Don’t worry.  First I’m going to touch you for a while.”

“Oh,” Martin murmured; his voice came out low and rough.  “Why?”

“I want to,” Arthur said simply.  “And I think maybe not enough people have touched you.”

Martin swallowed and pressed his lips together hard.  Arthur kissed him, coaxing his mouth open.  The tip of his tongue just skated over his bottom lip.  He kept at Martin with small, darting touches, nibbling at his mouth and gently sucking on his lips.  When Martin tried to kiss back, Arthur let him and made an encouraging sound.  They kissed until Martin’s breathing grew ragged and his mouth was tingling and hot. 

Then Arthur pulled back and Martin chased after him, a soft whine catching in his throat.  Arthur hushed him and took him by the shoulders, steering him toward the bed.  Martin felt a cold twist of anxiety in his stomach but it was easy to ignore; the warm pulse of anticipation carried him over it, helped by the steady strength of Arthur’s hands.

They wound up on the bed, Martin on his back with Arthur at his side.  Arthur kissed him as he opened the buttons of his shirt, and then leaned down to kiss his chest.  He lingered over it, one button at a time.  His mouth was soft and left trails of sensation as he meandered across the skin.  Martin squirmed; his cock was already pressing impatiently against the inside of his trousers.  Arthur would not be rushed.

When he got the shirt open, he pushed it over Martin’s shoulders and off his arms, then tossed it aside.  Bare from the waist up, Martin looked at him: half-expecting some comment about his sparse ginger chest hair, freckles, and visible ribs.  Arthur’s smile was hungry and his eyes glittered in the dim light.  “Perfect,” he murmured.  “I’ve wanted to see you for a long time.”

“You… really?”

Arthur nodded.  He trailed his fingertips from Martin’s palm in a slow tingling line to his shoulder.  The touch sent shivers of sensation through him and his nipples tightened into points.  Arthur grinned, leaned down, and lapped at one.  Martin sucked in a hissed breath through his teeth and twitched.

“Do you like that?” Arthur asked.  “Not everyone does, but it’s one of my favourites.”

“I like it,” Martin mumbled.  His fingers dug into the duvet beneath him and he bit back a moan.  “I didn’t know I would.”

Arthur gave a pleased hum against his chest and nibbled at him, flicking his tongue across the tip.  Martin shuddered.  His skin felt hot and flushed and somehow too tight, drawn taut over his body.  Sparks of feeling radiated from his chest to his groin, pooling there; gooseflesh prickled down his spine.

He wasn’t sure how long it went on but when Arthur finally lifted his head, Martin’s nipples were aching points of heat and he was panting for breath.  One hand scrabbled at his belt and then he gave up on it and palmed his cock through his trousers, groaning.  He’d forgotten Arthur could see him, or forgotten to care about it.  The pressure was exquisite; the cotton of his underwear damp with pre-come and half slippery, half rough, just shy of too much friction.  He told himself he would stop, he’d pull his hand away, just a couple more strokes first.  Just one more quick squeeze, enough to take the edge off, he was going to stop after that but it felt so _good._

Arthur caught his wrist and pulled his hand away.  Martin made a pleading sound; his hips bucked up against the loss of pressure. 

“Shh,” Arthur said.  “Not yet.”

Martin made another high, choked whimper and nodded.  Arthur soothed him with more kisses but Martin was not inclined to be soothed.  He kissed back hard, sucking Arthur’s bottom lip into his mouth and then biting at it.  Arthur matched him, taking control of the kiss effortlessly.  He licked in, then sucked on Martin’s tongue with deliberate rhythm.  Martin shifted beneath him, his hands tugging impatiently at Arthur’s shirt.

“I want to touch you too,” he said between kisses.  “Please?”

Arthur shucked the shirt and vest with amazing speed.  Then he gathered Martin close, wrapping his arms around his waist and nuzzling into his shoulder.  The sudden rush of skin contact was heady and intoxicating; Martin felt some part of him was soaking it up and greedily storing away sensation.  He traced the line of Arthur’s spine and dipped into the small of his back.  His skin was soft and oddly vulnerable there. 

The feeling of Arthur’s skin calmed him in a way the kisses hadn’t, and he relaxed.  The sharp ache of arousal eased back into a rich and pleasant heat that sent shivers of pleasure through him as they moved.  He slipped a leg in between Arthur’s knees and drew their hips together tentatively.  He was pleased and reassured to find Arthur just as hard as he was. 

“Mmm,” Arthur murmured and kissed his shoulder.  “You feel brilliant.”

Martin hid his smile in the curve of Arthur’s neck.  He found a smooth patch of skin just below Arthur’s ear and nibbled there, then laved with his tongue.  Arthur squirmed and twisted, giving him more room with an inviting stretch of his neck.  Martin followed his example with small kisses, tickling with the tip of his tongue and sucking tiny marks into the skin.  Arthur was responsive and murmured encouragement to him, whispering the words in his ear. 

Arthur began to rock their hips together with a slow, deliberate cadence.  There were too many clothes in the way to really feel the slide, but the pressure of it made Martin catch his breath.  He slipped his hands down Arthur’s back and below the waist of his trousers, fingertips sneaking through the gap.  Arthur giggled.  “Tickles,” he murmured. 

“Oh, are you ticklish?” Martin asked, mock-innocent.  He rolled them, straddled Arthur’s hips, and went after his ribs and belly.  Arthur laughed and thrashed beneath him, gasping for breath.  He batted Martin’s hands away but made no real effort to escape.  Martin leaned in and blew a raspberry on Arthur’s belly, and Arthur shouted, then clapped a hand over his mouth.  His eyes sparkled at Martin, full of mischief. 

Martin felt a helpless swell of warmth rise in his chest.  Something more than fondness or gratitude for Arthur’s kindness.  He’d been so nervous about this, so afraid he’d mess it up.  So worried that he’d waited too long and would never get to experience it.  He’d never expected it to be _fun._

 _“Arthur,”_ he murmured.

Arthur was still grinning, his breath coming in little huffs of laughter, but his gaze went soft and dark.  “Come on,” he said, and lifted his arms.

Martin sprawled on his chest, feeling the thump of his heart, faint through his ribs.  He kept still as Arthur undid his belt and trouser button, then lifted his hips obediently to shimmy out of them.  There was a brief moment of awkward tangle when he realised he still had his shoes on (“I always forget those,” Arthur muttered with amused exasperation) but he kicked them off and toed out of his socks.  Then he was naked and sharply aware of his exposure.  The material of Arthur’s trousers seemed rough against his bare skin and his first impulse was to curl up and hide under the covers.

Arthur wriggled out of his clothes fast, before Martin could do more than turn on his side and tuck his knees up.  Then he was there, naked and completely unselfconscious about it.  He slid up behind Martin, warm all along his back, and the slick head of his cock nudged against his hip.  Martin tensed; that was a bit more reality than he’d quite been ready for.

Arthur rubbed his shoulders and kissed the nape of his neck.  He slung one arm over Martin’s chest and stroked the line of his sternum with his fingertips.  “It’s okay,” he said softly.  “Whatever you like.”

“I liked when you were touching me.”

“Good.”  Arthur rubbed his chest again, then wandered over to his nipples.  They were still tender from earlier and Martin shivered.  Arthur kept the touch light, barely brushing with the pads of his fingers.  Then he dipped lower, tracing over his abdomen and the curve of one hip.  The skin was stretched taut there, and tender; a faint scrape of his nails left sparks. 

He pulled, rolling Martin a little until he was half sprawled back against Arthur’s chest.  He gave a gentle nudge, parting his knees.  Martin was only half-hard; the nerves had gotten to him.  Arthur wasn’t bothered.  He kissed the side of Martin’s neck and nibbled his earlobe.  One hand was tucked under the curve of his waist, fingers splayed against his belly, holding him steady.  The other traced his inner thigh.  He moved a little higher with each stroke.

Anticipation swirled in Martin’s belly.  When Arthur’s knuckles brushed against his balls, he jerked forward, trying to get more.  Arthur moved with him and kept up the teasing stroke.  His fingers trailed through the ginger curls at the base of his cock and then, with a single fingertip, finally touched in a hot stripe from base to tip.  Martin whined low in his throat.  Arthur chuckled; the rumble and tickle of his breath sent a shiver down Martin’s spine. 

“Lovely,” Arthur murmured.  “You like that?”

“Yes,” Martin said.  “Yes, yes.”  He wasn’t sure when he’d gotten hard again but he _wanted._

At last, mercifully, Arthur curled his whole hand around him and gave him three firm strokes in rapid succession.  Martin gasped and arched his back.  He rocked into Arthur’s hand and then away, feeling the blunt, slippery touch of his cock nudging up behind his balls.  Arthur’s breathing grew rough in his ear and he turned them again, somehow lining everything up.

Arthur pushed with his hips and his cock slid into the snug gap between Martin’s thighs.  Each stroke rubbed the smooth, hot skin of his perineum and teased at the cleft of his arse.  His thumb worked over the head of Martin’s cock, twisting the foreskin around and gathering moisture.  His teeth scraped over the curve where Martin’s neck met his shoulder, and then he angled his head to suck a livid love bite high on his neck.

“Should get some lotion,” Arthur panted.  “If you want.”

“Don’t stop,” Martin said.  “Oh god, just a little more, don’t you dare stop.”

Arthur’s free hand was everywhere, scratching stinging trails of feeling into his thighs and then rubbing little circles around his nipples.  He used both hands to wrap around Martin’s cock, leaving him thrusting into warm skin from root to tip.  Then he grabbed Martin by the hair at the top of his head, giving a sharp tug.  Martin yelped and squirmed.  He had a sensitive scalp and loved having his hair petted (although he certainly hadn’t experienced much of it) but he’d had no idea the brief dash of pain could mix with everything else and heighten the sensations.

“Please,” Martin said, voice slurring over the word.  “Oh please, oh, oh…”

“Yes,” Arthur replied, low and intent.  “You’re beautiful like this, you feel so good.  So _good,_ brilliant, I’m going to do so many things to you.  I’m going to kiss you everywhere.  I’m going to sneak up on you in the flight deck and sit right there at your feet and lick you until you can’t take it anymore.  And you’re going to be biting your hand, trying to keep quiet, trying not to beg but you will.”

Just the thought of that soft mouth on him made Martin stutter his hips forward.  Arthur caught his hand and pulled two fingers into his mouth, sucking hard.  He licked over Martin’s fingertips and copied the motion on the head of his cock, rubbing over the slit in slippery little tugs.  His hips never stopped rocking them both, maddening rubs, slippery with sweat and pre-come.  Martin arched and made a high keening noise.  His free hand covered Arthur’s on his cock, lacing their fingers together.

Arthur went a little faster, snug and slick over his skin.  “Come on,” he whispered.  “Come on, _Captain_.”  He punctuated that with a flicker of his tongue over the sensitive webbing between Martin’s fingers, sucking at the skin.

Martin thought he cried out when he came but he didn’t know the words.  Pleasure rolled out like a storm front seen from above, heavy and fast and flickering with lightning.  Arthur sped up, coaxing wave after wave out of him, and then he gasped and went still.  Martin was dimly aware of wet warmth on his thighs and Arthur’s whimpers of pleasure against his shoulder. 

Shivery aftershocks left him trembling on the bed, limbs sprawled in every direction.  Arthur rolled him over and gathered him close.  Martin clung to him for a long moment.  He was dazed and sated and happy but his throat ached and a faint stinging prickle crept up behind his eyes.  He hid his face against Arthur’s hair and breathed in the clean salt scent. 

Arthur stroked his back and waited, dropping little kisses on all the bits he could reach.  Martin let out a long, shuddery breath and relaxed into the warm embrace.  His breathing slowed; the sweat cooled on his skin.  Arthur caught the edge of the duvet and wrapped it around both of them.

“Did that count?” Martin asked eventually. 

“Hm?”

“Am I still…”

“Oh,” Arthur said.  “That counted.”

“Are you sure?”

“Definitely,” Arthur replied. 

“It’s just… I thought to count, some bit has to be inside some other bit, doesn’t it?”

Arthur smiled.  “Well, there’s still tomorrow morning.”

“So you wouldn’t mind helping a little bit more?”

“I love helping,” Arthur said.  “But Skip, you know that’s not why I did this.”

“Oh,” Martin replied.  “It’s not?”

Arthur shook his head.  “I wanted to.  I have wanted to for a long time.”

“You never said.”

“I thought you’d say no.”

Martin curled closer.  Sleepiness washed over him; Arthur was so warm.  Arthur stroked his hair and Martin let out a long, contented sigh.  “Ask me.”

“Would you go out with me, Skip?  Would you let me do this again?”

“Yes,” Martin murmured.  “Please.  Yes.”

Arthur squeezed him tight.  _“Brilliant.”_


	7. Epilogue

They were late to breakfast. 

The hotel had a lovely glassed in conservatory where complimentary breakfast was served to guests every morning.  Carolyn was not one to miss anything free, and Douglas had a fondness for their croissants.  They were sitting at a table, lingering over coffee and chatting, when Martin and Arthur came in. 

Conversation stopped, and they both turned to look.  Douglas gave Martin a long, sweeping up and down stare.  A knowing smile quirked one corner of his mouth.  Carolyn pursed her lips sternly.  Martin froze, colour flooding his face, two steps into the room.

“Come on,” Arthur said, giving his elbow a little tug.  “They’ve got pastries!”

“Um, no thanks,” Martin mumbled.  “Not all that hungry, actually.”

“You should eat,” Douglas said.  “Keep your strength up.”

 _“Douglas,”_ Martin hissed.

“What?  It’s a long flight.”  Douglas was the picture of innocence. 

“I’ll get you something, Skip,” Arthur said. 

He headed for the buffet before Martin could protest.  Left standing in the middle of the room, Martin dithered for a moment and then slunk over to perch on a chair beside Douglas and Carolyn.  He picked up a fork and fiddled with it, then lined it up on the napkin.  Eventually, he raised his head and gave them both quick, wary glances.

“Well,” Douglas said.  “How was your evening?  Restful?”

“Fine.  Fine.  Yes, fine.  Yes.”  Martin cleared his throat and lifted his chin stubbornly.

“Oh, good.”  Douglas took a deliberate sip of coffee.  “You didn’t have trouble sharing with Arthur, then?”

Martin could feel the blush from his neck out to the tips of his ears.  “No trouble.”

“Mmm,” Douglas said.  He turned to Carolyn.  “I do hope the slumber party didn’t disturb you.”

“ _Disturb_ is exactly the right word,” Carolyn replied dryly.

Martin’s eyes widened, and he swallowed hard.  “Carolyn, um… it’s not…”

Arthur came bounding up to the table, balancing a heavily laden tray.  “Right,” he said, “I’ve got coffee and raspberry scones and eggs and sausage.  Also toast, fruit, and those tiny little jam packets.  That way you can have a different kind of jam on each slice of toast.”

He put the tray down, slid into the seat beside Martin, and beamed at everyone.  “It’s a gorgeous morning, isn’t it?  Did you see the boats this morning?  They look even better in sunshine.”

Douglas gave him a slow smile.  “You’re in good spirits today, Arthur.”

“Yeah,” Arthur said simply.  He put half the food on a plate and pushed it at Martin. 

“Thank you,” Martin murmured.  He picked up a slice of toast, spread it with jam, and nibbled at it.

There was a pause in which Martin felt the line of his shoulders become even more tense and Arthur blithely ignored everyone’s looks and tackled his breakfast with gusto. 

“Oh for god’s sake,” Carolyn muttered.  “Martin, I am not flying seven hours today with you walking on eggshells.  Yes, we all know.  Bravo for you.  Do not think for one second you are coming to live with me.  If you hurt Arthur I will feed you into one of Gertie’s engines.  Now, can we move on?”

Martin gaped at her.  His toast fell out of his hand and landed, jam side down, on his eggs.  Douglas started to snicker, one hand over his mouth.  Arthur… looked _smug._

“Good lord,” Douglas said.  “Arthur, I didn’t even know your face could do that.”

“I can do a lot of things you don’t know about,” Arthur replied.  Smugly.

Martin choked on his coffee and sputtered.  Carolyn put a hand over her eyes and heaved a long, weary sigh.  “I can see this is going to be a pleasant flight,” she said. 

*

“So,” Douglas said later, giving him a sidelong glance from the co-pilot seat.  “I believe congratulations are in order.”

“Can we skip to the part where you never speak of it again?” Martin replied tightly.

“Come now,” Douglas chided.  “I thought you’d be more pleased.  Are you not happy with how things turned out?”

Martin blinked at the controls.  He thought of waking up that morning, curled in Arthur’s arms, to the feeling of warm fingers idly stroking the hair at the nape of his neck.  The way Arthur had offered him a sleepy smile and burrowed closer.  And the way Arthur had decided they should save time by showering together (which did not, in fact, save any time at all). 

“Yes,” he said slowly.  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“You suppose?”

“I’m still getting used to the idea,” Martin said.  “Did you know that he was…”

“Absolutely besotted with you?  I had an idea, yes.”

“You did?  He is?”  Martin sat up straight, turning wide eyes on Douglas.  “He didn’t say anything about… you know, the L-word.”

Douglas raised an eyebrow.  “Really, Martin?  The _L-word?_ If you can’t even say it, I’m not surprised he didn’t bring it up.”

“What? Why?  Do you think he’s changed his mind?”

“No,” Douglas replied.  His voice went low and soothing.  “It’s just that Arthur, in his own _very_ unique way, is actually quite wise sometimes.  He knows better than to rush you.”

“Oh.”  Martin bit his thumbnail thoughtfully.  “He did say we’d start slow.  And last night—”

Douglas held up a hand.  “I’ll forego the details, thank you.”

“Yes, right,” Martin said, ducking his head.  “But… why the elaborate plan?  The bet?  Why couldn’t you just tell me?”

“Two reasons,” Douglas replied.  “One, if I had just told you, you never would have acted on the knowledge.  I had to get you thinking in the right direction first.  And two—this way was much more fun.”

“Oh, so glad I could amuse you,” Martin retorted.

“As am I.” 

Martin gave a soft laugh.  “And, Douglas… thank you.”

Douglas smiled.  “You’re welcome.”


End file.
